


I'd Rather Cut Out My Tongue Than Let You Kiss Me With Yours

by inoubliable



Series: i've overthought everything i can think of [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: (No he doesn't), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Based on the Hey Violet song, Eddie just wants to be left alone, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Fraternities & Sororities, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining, Richie is a fuckboy, Sexual Humor, So is Bill, Stan wants to get his best friend laid, Topping from the Bottom, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 16:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: Eddie hooked up with Richie only once, way back in freshman year. Richie never texted him afterward. Eddie thinks he has learned his lesson.(He hasn't.)--And it would be hot, except Richie’s an asshole. Like all attractive college-aged guys with angular jaw lines and sharp hipbones, Richie Tozier is a fuckboy. And Eddie Kaspbrak does not fuck fuckboys. At least, not more than once.





	I'd Rather Cut Out My Tongue Than Let You Kiss Me With Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hey Violet's '[Fuqboi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipVJwQf1jNA)'.

Eddie, much to his own chagrin, is not drunk.

His friends are. Mike has managed to commandeer one of the two couches in the crowded living room, mostly because he’s tall and charming and gets whatever he wants with one bright white smile. He sits in the direct middle, his arms spread across the back like it’s a throne and not some ratty, stained sofa. There’s an empty space on his left for Stan, who is both a lightweight and three shots in, and who has abandoned them in favor of the dance floor. Bev is on Mike’s right, squeezed in tight between him and Eddie. Her legs are crossed but her skirt rides high, flashing the room several inches of pale thigh. Ben probably has a pretty direct view of her underwear from where he’s sitting on the floor at her feet, but his eyes haven’t strayed from her face. Eddie knows because he has been watching.

Ben is more of an acquaintance than a friend. He’s part of whatever frat is hosting this party, and the only real reason Eddie was invited. Ben invited Mike, because everyone knows and likes Mike, and Mike invited Eddie. Eddie wishes he hadn’t. He has so many better things to do than watch drunk college kids grind against one another to some bass-heavy rap song.

He itches for a drink, but it’s his turn to stay sober enough to get his friends home safely. It’s only fair, because Mike did it last time, and Stan the time before that, but he’s still sort of bitter about it. A frat party without the heavy buzz of intoxication sort of feels like Eddie’s own personal hell.

There’s a commotion across the room, near the kitchen, and Eddie’s mood sours further when he looks. It’s Richie. Of fucking course it’s Richie. Eddie knew he would be there. Not only is he in the same frat as Ben, he can sniff out alcohol like a bloodhound. Eddie has never seen him without a beer in his hand.

That’s probably because their interactions start and end at parties like these.

They hooked up, once, in freshman year. They were both very drunk. Eddie doesn’t remember it at all, except sometimes he sees Richie like this and gets a sudden memory of Richie’s tongue on his spine. He can almost recall what Richie’s pillow had smelled like when he had his face shoved into it – like cigarettes and cheap cologne and boy.

And it would be hot, except Richie’s an asshole. Like all attractive college-aged guys with angular jaw lines and sharp hipbones, Richie Tozier is a fuckboy. And Eddie Kaspbrak does not fuck fuckboys. At least, not more than once.

Richie must have missed that memo, because he looks around the room and his eyes find Eddie’s. His entire face lights up. He looks devastatingly handsome, and Eddie resents him for it.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he asks himself when Richie says something to the guy he’s with and they both start picking their way through the crowd. It sort of parts for them, which is annoying. It’s even more annoying that Richie does exactly what Eddie knows he’s going to and approaches him directly. He always hopes that Richie will just ignore him, and he’s always disappointed.

“Eds!” Richie says warmly once he’s close enough to be heard over the music. The guy at his side lifts a hand in Eddie’s direction but doesn’t otherwise make contact. Eddie is pretty sure his name is Bill. He’s just as bad as Richie. Maybe worse. He wears a snapback, for God’s sake.

Eddie considers his options. He can pretend he didn’t hear Richie, but they’ve already made eye contact. He can tell Richie off, but it won’t matter, because it never does. He can actually talk to Richie, but ugh. Gross.

He settles for a curt, “Tozier,” and a sort of head nod that seems to pass as a greeting to frat boys.

Richie’s smile is way too warm, almost like they’re friends or something. “We’re not on a first name basis anymore?” he asks, and leans over the arm of the couch, down into Eddie’s space. “Cause I distinctly remember the way you sounded when you screamed it.”

Eddie backs away from him, unimpressed. “Your sex life must be pretty bad if you’re still thinking about a one night stand from two years ago,” he says flatly. There’s a sound like someone poorly stifling a laugh. When he glances over, Beverly is staring at the two of them unabashedly, her hand over her mouth.

Richie doesn’t look away from Eddie. “Gonna be a cold day in hell when I forget that ass, Eds.” His eyes are dark, and Eddie is almost charmed for a second, but then Snapback Bill elbows Richie’s side and Richie looks away and Eddie can breathe again. He curses himself for being so easy. Honestly, Richie is just another stupid boy. He’s pretty, and the snatches of memory Eddie has from the night he spent in Richie’s bed are all great, but…

But he’s not doing this again. There are about ten different reasons why Eddie isn’t going to sleep with Richie. He knows because he made a list, the last time he almost fell for Richie’s shit.

Richie wears this really obnoxious dangly earring in his left ear. It’s a solid gold dreamcatcher, and there’s one glimmering diamond in the center that catches the light, as attention-seeking as the boy who wears it. It belonged to Richie’s mother. He stole it from her and let her think she lost it after too many vodka tonics – because apparently crippling alcohol dependence runs in Richie’s family.

Eddie accidentally found Richie’s Instagram the year before. Apparently, Richie follows most of his friends, and his friends follow him back. Eddie doesn’t see why. All of his posts are of his fraternity brothers, or almost-empty liquor bottles. There are a handful of selfies in which Richie is posed in exactly the same way, his head tilted to the side and his shirt off.

Once, a couple of weeks after the first and only time they slept together, Richie texted him. _You should come over_ , he had said, immediately followed by, _I just hate sleeping alone_. Eddie probably would have fallen for it except he was pretty sure Richie stole that line from the Drake song. Eddie never texted him back.

And now, here he is, two years later, Richie Tozier staring down at him, just as tall, just as gorgeous, just as annoying. Eddie likes to think he’s learned his lesson and that he’s in no danger of falling into the trap of Richie’s easy smile, but then he finds himself staring at Richie’s mouth and he realizes he hasn’t learned a damn thing.

Beverly’s soft hand suddenly cups Eddie’s elbow. “Eddie,” she says sweetly. She pushes her empty cup into his hand. “If you’re done eye-fucking him, can you please get me another drink?”

Eddie wants to tell her to get her own, but it’s as good an excuse as any to get out from under Richie’s heavy gaze. “Fuck you, Bev,” he mumbles, but he stands up anyway, shoving through the crowd without so much as a glance in Richie’s direction.

This turns out to be a mistake, because of course Richie follows him. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different.

So now he’s alone in a mostly-empty kitchen with Richie Tozier. Away from the sound system, the music isn’t so loud, and the only thing Eddie has to occupy his hands is Beverly’s empty cup. He considers filling it with whatever liquor he can find and downing the whole thing in one swallow. He considers running back to his friends with his tail tucked between his legs. He considers punching Richie’s smug face where he’s leaned up against the door frame, blocking Eddie’s escape.

“So,” Richie says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Eddie rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “Could you be more of a cliché?”

“Probably.” Richie shrugs a careless shoulder. “Did it hurt?” he asks, and Eddie doesn’t even have enough time to stop him before he says, “When you fell from heaven?”

Eddie has never wanted so many things at once: namely, to kick Richie in the nuts and to also get as far from him as humanly possible.

“Now I have to drop out of school and become a hermit on the coast of Ireland so I never hear something that terrible again,” he sighs. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” Richie says, his voice bright. “So, listen. I was thinking…”

“Doubtful,” Eddie cuts in, trying to figure out the best way to get around him that doesn’t involve touching. The last thing Eddie needs is to remember the heat of Richie’s body or the way it feels pressed up against his own.

Richie does not look at all like he’s planning to move. “We should do something sometime.”

Eddie stares at him. “No.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, actually looking a little offended. “No? Why not?”

“Because by something you mean fuck, and by sometime you mean tonight. And I’ve been there, done that. Go find someone else.”

Richie stares at him, and his dark eyes are very intense. “I don’t want someone else.”

And that’s usually the sort of thing Eddie would go all weak for, but this is Richie, and it just sounds like another line.

“Sure you don’t, Casanova.” He makes Beverly’s drink then, avoiding Richie’s eyes. It’s a lot of orange juice and a little vodka, because Beverly is a flirty drunk, and he does not want to have to drag her out of Ben’s lap at the end of the night.

Taking his eyes off of Richie was a mistake. Just as he twists the cap back onto the glass liquor bottle, there’s a warm wall of heat against his back. Eddie tenses. It feels familiar in a horrifying way. He remembers, suddenly, having Richie draped over his back, pressing him into the mattress with fast, forceful thrusts, Richie’s voice low and unsteady in his ear.

That voice says, “Come on, Eddie,” and it’s the same thing Richie said two years ago while his hand slid underneath Eddie’s body to stroke him through his orgasm. Eddie shudders helplessly. He knows it’s a mistake because Richie takes it as permission, his hands cupping Eddie’s hips, his mouth against Eddie’s ear. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Eddie _wants_ to, and that more than anything makes him angry. He should be over this, damn it. He should be over Richie and his stupid mouth and his stupid hands.

But he’s not, he’s not, he’s _not_.

Eddie puts Beverly’s cup down carefully and turns around to face Richie. Richie looks down at him, eyes almost black, lips parted. He’s gorgeous.

Eddie shoves him away.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, his voice shaky and too-loud. “Get it through your thick skull: I don’t want you.”

Richie stares at him for a second, and Eddie stares back. They both know it’s a lie.

Eddie picks up Beverly’s cup and practically runs back to his friends, like the coward he is. This time, Richie doesn’t follow him.

He can see most of the dance floor from the couch, but there's a distinct lack of golden spiral hair. “Where’s Stan?” he asks, handing Beverly her drink. She thanks him with a lazy smile.

Mike peers around the room, like he is noticing for the first time that their friend is missing. “He was out there just a minute ago.”

Eddie digs out his phone. There’s a new text from Stan.

_Got a different ride. Don’t wait up._

Eddie knows exactly what that means. _At least one of us is going to have a good night_ , he thinks, and his traitor mind pictures Richie, in bed and naked, their bodies twined together. It’s somewhere between a memory and a fantasy. Eddie shakes his head to clear it, and very stubbornly refuses to think about Richie for the rest of the night.

* * *

Stan meets him for coffee the next morning wearing the most ridiculous pair of sunglasses Eddie has ever seen.

“Rough night?” Eddie asks innocently, like he hadn’t seen Stan before he disappeared, loose and dancing and intoxicated. Stan only ever stays sober or gets deliciously, deliriously drunk. There is no in-between.

Stan, very eloquently, lifts his middle finger and slides into the seat across from Eddie. His hand is cupped around a steaming mug of plain coffee, because Stan is hardcore and drinks it black. He takes a sip and Eddie winces for him.

“That’s disgusting,” he says.

“You’re disgusting,” Stan returns automatically, clearly off his game.

Eddie stares at him. “Have you been hanging out with Richie? You’re starting to sound like him.”

Though he cannot see through Stan’s ridiculous glasses, he knows Stan rolls his eyes. “Like I would be caught dead with your boytoy.”

“He’s not my—” Stan waves him off. Eddie doesn’t bother to defend himself further. Stan will not listen, because he is a terrible friend who gives terrible advice. Namely, that Eddie should just fuck Richie again and be done with it. It’s a stupid suggestion on about six different levels, the top one being that he makes it sound like Eddie is _pining_.

Eddie would rather sit on a knife than sit on Richie’s dick again, and you can quote him on that.

Stan is wearing a thick purple scarf, and he hooks his fingers into it like he’s thinking about taking it off. He removed his coat as soon as he sat down, but not the scarf. He has to be suffocating. The coffeeshop is warm, both from the central heat and the crush of bodies lining almost out the door.

“You’re going to pass out,” Eddie tells him. “And I’m not calling an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” Stan says tersely, but he fiddles uncomfortably with it again. It loosens, sagging off to the side. A purple mark is revealed, vivid against Stan’s pale throat. Eddie stares at it, then at Stan’s face. Stan studiously ignores him, examining his nails. Stan keeps his nails perfectly filed, uniform to an almost ridiculous degree, so Eddie knows for a fact that they are not that interesting.

“Are you actually expecting me to ignore that truly impressive bite mark on your neck?” he asks after several long seconds, when it becomes clear that Stan does not intend to say anything.

Stan sighs and finally unwinds the scarf from around his throat. Several more bruises are revealed, disappearing underneath his collar. “I’m expecting you to be an adult and not make a big deal out of this,” he says.

“Then you don’t know me at all.” Eddie crosses his arms on the table and leans against them, grinning. “I want all the details.”

Stan purses his lips. “That’s private.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, _so_ private,” he says, eyeing the marks.

Stan seems to deflate then, staring into his coffee. “You’re going to be so mad,” he admits to the dark liquid, then peeks at Eddie over the top of his glasses. “It was Bill.”

Eddie stares at him blankly. He doesn’t know any Bills.

“You know,” Stan presses, fingers tapping nervously against the lip of his mug. “Richie’s friend?”

And it clicks.

“ _You fucked Snapback Bill?_ ”

“Shut up!” Stan hisses, looking around anxiously, as if human ears could actually detect the high pitch of Eddie’s incredulous voice.

Eddie is torn between laughter and judgement. “How did that even happen?”

“We were dancing,” Stan says, slowly, like he’s trying to remember. “And then he got me a drink, and… I don’t know. We ended up in his room.”

“I fully expect the same treatment for buying you this coffee,” Eddie says, mock-seriously. Stan does not look amused.

“It was good,” he admits after a quiet few seconds. “Like, really good.”

Eddie nods. He takes a sip of his coffee, then sets it down with a definitive clink. “I have a question.”

Stan looks wary, which is fair. “What is it?”

“Did he take his snapback off, or did he just fuck you wearing it?”

“I hate you,” Stan says.

“That’s not an answer,” Eddie replies cheerfully. He probably deserves it when Stan picks up his coat and his scarf and leaves him alone in the coffeeshop, still laughing to himself.

Karma bites him in the ass almost immediately, because someone takes Stan’s empty seat before Stan’s abandoned coffee even gets cold.

The boy suddenly across from him is tall, even sitting down. He has a baseball cap shoved on his head, but a few dark curls have escaped around the edges. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and no earring. He smiles at Eddie like they’re old friends.

Richie Tozier looks a lot different in the light of day.

“Hey, babe,” he says, leaning back in his chair so that the front legs lift off the ground. Eddie has a sudden desire to kick them out from under him.

“Am I cursed?” he asks, almost to himself. “Is my luck really this bad?”

“I like to think of it as fate,” Richie says. He’s not even drinking coffee. He lifts a Red Bull can to his mouth. He came to a coffeeshop to drink an _energy drink_.

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the impending Richie-related migraine. “Why are you here?”

“For the pleasure of your company, sunshine,” Richie says, like he can’t help himself, then says, just as Eddie is about to stand up and leave, “I’m meeting a friend here.”

“A friend?” Eddie asks dubiously.

Richie grins. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you don’t have to compete with anyone for my affection. It’s just Bill.”

 _Snapback Bill_ , Eddie’s mind immediately supplies. He hates himself for thriving on drama, because now he actually wants to stick around. He wants to see if Stan did as much damage to Bill as Bill did to him. 

But that means he has to spend more time with Richie than strictly necessary. He’s torn.

“Wouldn’t you guys rather have a table to yourself?” he can’t help but ask.

“Nah,” Richie says, putting all four chair legs on the floor again so he can lean forward. “The view is so much better at this one.” Something catches his attention over Eddie’s head, and he’s waving someone over before Eddie has the chance to roll his eyes. “Bill! Over here!”

Bill, like Richie, looks a lot different during the day. He’s wearing green cargo shorts, a gray shirt, and white socks that go halfway up his hairy calves. He is not wearing a snapback. He greets Eddie with a nod and an admittedly charming smile, then greets Richie with some sort of weird handshake thing that ends with them both thumping each other on the back. Eddie feels a little smothered by all the blatant testosterone.

The only thing that keeps him in his seat are the fine red half-moon marks Eddie can see on Bill’s upper arms, like someone grabbed him, dug their nails in tight. While Richie and Bill are distracted by their own conversation, Eddie opens his snapchat and takes a picture of the two of them, drawing a big red circle around the marks on Bill’s arms. He sends it to Stan.

Stan messages back immediately. _Is that Richie? Are you hanging out with Richie?_

Eddie doesn’t reply, because that is so not the point.

* * *

It’s been a week since the party. The bruises on Stan’s throat have faded almost to nonexistence. Eddie has not spoken to Richie since the coffeeshop. Balance has been restored.

Eddie is in Stan’s dorm, lying across his bed with his textbook open to a page he’s not even pretending to read. Midterms are coming up, but they’re still far enough away that Eddie does not feel panicked about his lack of focus. He cups his chin in his hands, elbows propped on the bed, and stares at Stan, who looks like a model student, his back straight and his eyes firmly scanning his notes. He makes a mark here, crosses something out there, and then looks up when he finally feels Eddie’s eyes on him.

“What?” he asks, sounding rather impatient. Stan is not very kind to those who interfere with his studies. That’s probably why he’s ignoring his phone, which has buzzed at least three separate times since they cracked open the books an hour ago. It buzzes again then, as if to prove a point.

“Who’s texting you?” Eddie asks, because he’s nosy and bored.

Stan glances at his phone, then shakes his head impatiently. “Probably Bill.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Snapback Bill?”

Stan gives him a look that would terrify lesser men. “Do not call him that.”

“You’re still talking to him?” Eddie asks, confused. Stan hasn’t mentioned him, not since the morning after when he failed so disastrously at concealing the marks.

Stan sighs and puts his pen down, spinning his chair to fully face Eddie. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Eddie says, slowly, not quite meaning it. “I just… Should I be worried?”

Stan raises one eyebrow, looking caught between amusement and exasperation. “About what?”

“You.” Eddie gestures between Stan and his phone, like that explains everything. “You know Bill is a total fuckboy, right?”

“You know Bill is an actual person, right?” Stan returns. “I know you have this weird thing against guys in frats, but Bill is really nice. You’d like him.”

 _Doubtful_ , Eddie thinks. “It’s not a thing against guys in frats,” he argues. “It’s a thing against guys like him. Guys who dress like he does. Guys who look like he does. Guys who fuck you and never text you after.” Eddie shrugs. “You know. Fuckboys.”

Stan squints at him. “This isn’t about Bill, is it?”

Eddie genuinely, seriously has no idea what he’s talking about. “What? Of course it’s about Bill.”

But the thing about Stan is that, when he has convinced himself of something, it’s impossible to change his mind. “You’re mad that Richie never texted you back.”

“ _What?_ ” Eddie scrambles to sit up. “I never texted Richie in the first place!”

“You know what I mean,” Stan says, unconcerned. He stops talking for a second, then gets this stupid, sly look on his face. “You know Richie likes you, right?”

“What is this, second grade?” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Does he _like_ -like me? Does he want to chase me around at recess and pull my pigtails?”

Stan ignores him. “Bill says he still talks about you.”

Eddie hates himself for pausing. “Not interested,” he says, but it’s a beat too late, and Stan’s smile is smug. Eddie points at him accusingly. “Don’t talk about me to Bill. You can do the stupid thing and fuck him all you want, but leave me out of it.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Stan says, and he picks up his phone, finally opening Bill’s texts.

Eddie gets the horrible feeling that Stan is lying.

* * *

Richie texts him the next day.

It’s the first time Richie’s number has flashed across his screen in years. Eddie only kept his number as a reminder not to text back. His name is saved as ‘Do not answer!!! Richie’ because Eddie is dramatic and has very little self-control.

_Hey._

That’s all the text says. It’s so innocuous that Eddie spends a long time staring at it, waiting for more.

Nothing else comes, so Eddie figures he might as well get to the point.

_Not interested._

There’s a long pause, and then:

_Are you always this mean, or am I a special case?_

_I wouldn’t consider you special._

_Ouch, Eds. You sure know how to hurt a guy._

Eddie wants to say _so do you_ , but that sounds too much like defeat. That sounds like Eddie was actually hurt when Richie kicked him out the morning after, when the only reason Richie tried to contact him again was for another booty call.

He decides not to text back.

Richie, unsurprisingly, refuses to be ignored.

_There’s a party tonight._

_Again: not interested._

_Come on, it’ll be fun._

_Doubtful. Don’t you have anyone else to annoy?_

_Nope. Just you._

_Lucky me._

_You could get luckier if you came to the party._

_Are you even capable of not using stupid lines?_

_If you come tonight, I promise I won’t use any._

And that… that’s interesting. That makes it sound like Richie actually wants him there. Richie probably has a couple dozen people who would be interested in sleeping with him, and with far less effort involved. And yet here he is, making stupid promises to coax Eddie into coming over.

Eddie tries not to feel flattered. He fails.

 _We’ll see_ , he texts back finally. Richie sends him a string of smiley-face emojis. Eddie realizes he’s grinning at his phone and very quickly stops.

He calls Stan.

“I know this is your fault,” he says, when Stan picks up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stan says, not sounding very convincing at all.

“You and Bill are, like, coaching Richie,” he accuses. “You told him I’m mad that he never texted.”

“So you _are_ mad about that,” Stan says triumphantly, which is so not the point.

“I told you not to talk to Bill about me.”

“I told you that Richie actually likes you.”

Eddie makes an exasperated noise. “Richie just wants to get laid.”

“So do you!” Stan says brightly. “It’s perfect.”

Eddie glares, even though Stan can’t see it. “Why are you so invested in this?”

“You’re my best friend,” Stan says. “But you can be really stubborn. Richie’s not a bad guy. Bill says he’s done a lot of growing up.”

“You’ve gone to the dark side,” Eddie says reproachfully. “Next thing I know, you’re going to be asking me for nudes and talking back to your mother. You’re gonna ditch me to hang out with all your frat boy friends.”

“Bros before hoes,” Stan agrees. He’s laughing when Eddie hangs up on him.

* * *

Eddie catches a ride to the party with Beverly. Stan is already at the frat house because he has been spending his every free moment with Bill, and Mike isn’t coming, too bogged down with schoolwork.

There is no debate over who is the designated driver. Neither of them plan to go home.

It’s almost eleven, and the party is in full-swing. Music can be heard from the sidewalk, and several people are outside, smoking in loose circles. Beverly sees someone she knows and takes the excuse for a cigarette, digging her pack out of her purse and giving Eddie a parting smile.

Eddie faces the crowd inside alone.

It’s not hard to find Stan. He’s leaned in a corner with Ben, talking emphatically with the hand that isn’t braced around a plastic cup. His face is pink, and his shoulders look a little loose. He’s half-drunk already. His attention flits between the conversation at hand and the beer pong table, where Richie and Bill are on opposite ends, staring each other down. They’re evenly matched, both with only two cups left. It’s Richie’s turn, and he’s so focused on his shot that he doesn’t notice when Eddie approaches the group.

“Having fun?” he asks, taking the cup out of Stan’s hand when it starts to tilt precariously.

“Eddie!” Stan cries. Richie’s concentration breaks and he badly misses the shot, but he does not look at all upset about it, eyes finding Eddie’s. Eddie lifts Stan’s cup in his direction, a half-assed acknowledgment, and Richie grins. He looks absurdly normal in dark jeans and a green v-neck shirt. His hair looks neater than normal, not as recklessly curly. Eddie can’t help but wonder if Richie made an effort for him.

Bill, who has talked to Eddie just once at the coffeeshop, pulls him into a hug, and doesn’t even do that weird back-pat thing that most guys do when they embrace other men. “Please do something,” he murmurs in Eddie’s ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “He’s been pining all week. He’s driving me crazy.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh, feeling both embarrassed and pleased. Bill pulls back then and flashes him a smile, so sincere it crinkles his eyes. So maybe Stan was right. Bill is kind of nice.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Denbrough,” Richie says, abandoning their game to swing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. To everyone’s surprise, Eddie doesn’t shrug him off. “You can’t have all the pretty ones.”

“Did you just imply that I’m pretty?” Stan asks, looking very content where he’s leaned up against Bill.

“Well, you are,” Richie says, like it’s just a fact.

Eddie rolls his eyes. Stan, for all his cold stares and stand-offish behavior, is a sucker for compliments. “No wonder Stan wants me to fuck you.”

He realizes his mistake when Richie’s face lights up and Stan muffles a laugh behind his hand.

He points an accusing finger at Stan. “You need to leave me alone,” he says, and then points at Bill, who is poorly biting back a smile. “You, too.” He turns on Ben, who looks sort of like he’s trying to go unnoticed in the corner. “There’s a pretty girl around here looking for you. You need to find her.” Ben smiles, then, and bids them all goodbye before disappearing into the crowd. Eddie turns on Richie, who holds his hands up like he’s already expecting to get yelled at. “And you need to come with me.”

None of them look like they expected that, least of all Richie. It would be funny, except he seems almost frozen, staring at Eddie wide-eyed. Eddie takes his hand and starts to lead him through the crowd and up the stairs. He ignores the whistles and cheers that Bill and Stan call after them.

He still somehow remembers which room is Richie’s, but he hesitates outside the door, just in case something has changed in the two years since he was last there. It hasn’t; Richie reaches out and grasps the handle, pushing the door open. Eddie leads him inside, and Richie turns the lock behind them, looking at Eddie like he’s making sure it’s okay.

“Sit down,” Eddie says softly. Richie sits on the edge of his bed, looking helpless to argue. Eddie toes off his shoes and then climbs on, knee on either side of Richie’s thighs, straddling his lap. Richie doesn’t look like he knows what to do with his hands, but he eventually puts them on Eddie’s hips, feather-light, like he expects Eddie to try and escape.

Eddie leans down and kisses him.

He doesn’t remember doing this, last time. It’s all a blur of hot heat and flurried movement, nothing this slow and measured. Eddie kisses Richie firmly, holding Richie’s face between his hands. Richie makes a helpless noise against his mouth, kissing back like he has something to prove.

When Eddie pulls away, Richie tries to follow him. His eyes are wide and dark. There’s no trace of that infuriatingly smug boy from before, none of the slouchy flirtation or the sleazy lines. Richie looks hot-eyed and beautiful. When Eddie thought about sleeping with Richie, this was always the Richie he pictured.

“I have some rules,” Eddie murmurs, because if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. Richie doesn’t look cautious, like he expects, or even concerned. He just nods, lips wet-looking and slightly parted. “You’re not going to kick me out in the morning unless it's to take me to breakfast,” Eddie says, holding up one finger. He waits for Richie to nod before holding up a second. “You’re not going to brag about this to anyone.” Another pause. Another nod. Eddie reaches down then and takes hold of Richie’s wrist. “And you’re not going to touch.”

Richie blinks. “What-?”

Eddie grins and climbs off his lap, sliding out of his shirt as he goes. “Hands to yourself, Tozier. This is my show.”

He drops to his knees. Richie gives another helpless moan and his fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for Eddie.

“Good boy,” Eddie says, with only the slightest bite of condescension. He reaches out and undoes Richie’s belt, tugging it free from the loops with a quiet whisper of noise. The music downstairs is loud, and the rush of blood in Eddie’s ears is louder, but he can still hear everything, like the sound of Richie’s swallow. Eddie looks up at him, pausing with his thumb on the button of Richie’s jeans. “This is okay, right?” he asks.

“So okay,” Richie says in a rush, sounding sort of choked. “Better than okay, Eds, oh my God. I’ve thought about this for so long.”

Eddie blushes without meaning to, because Richie sounds so earnest, so _honest_. “No talking,” Eddie says firmly, because he’s not sure this will last long enough if Richie starts running his stupid, gorgeous mouth.

Richie shakes his head. “That wasn’t one of the conditions. I can talk all I want to. I can tell you just how pretty you are on your knees for me, just how fucking pretty you are _all the time_. You make me—“ His hand flexes again, like he wants to reach for Eddie again, and his voice gets softer. “You make me fucking crazy.”

Eddie opens up Richie’s jeans just so he doesn’t have to look at Richie’s face. They work together to get them down to the middle of his thighs, and then Eddie presses a kiss to the tip of Richie’s dick. He’s already halfway hard. Richie hisses sharply through his teeth. He starts to reach for Eddie’s hair, but Eddie immediately pulls away.

“No touching,” Eddie reminds him, grinning. Richie groans like he’s dying, but he keeps his hands to himself. Satisfied, Eddie leans in again.

He runs his tongue under the head and then sinks down, slowly, very slowly. He doesn’t exactly do this often, but it’s far from the first time. Richie’s kind of big, though. It takes him a couple of tries to work past his gag reflex, and when he manages it, his throat still squeezes reflexively around Richie. Richie moans and moans, and his fingers twist tightly in the sheets so he doesn’t grab for Eddie’s hair. When Eddie glances up, Richie’s head is tilted back, his eyes shut tight. The sharp line of his jaw and the long line of his throat look so good that Eddie swallows hard, just to watch Richie shake.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Richie says, like a plea, like a prayer. His voice is slurred, just a little, like Eddie’s mouth is so distracting he can’t make his own work right. “Please, Eddie, don’t stop, don’t _stop_ , just—”

Eddie pulls off just to be a brat, sucking in a breath that sounds desperate and wet. Richie’s entire body twitches.

“Get undressed,” he says. His voice is _wrecked_ , and so is the look on Richie’s face when he scrambles to obey. He rips his shirt off over his head and shoves his jeans the rest of the way off. Eddie smiles, pleased by his enthusiasm. “Lay down.” Richie lies on his back, but lifts his head to keep his wide eyes on Eddie. Eddie stands, strips out of the rest of his clothing, and climbs on top of Richie, straddling him again.

Richie doesn’t look like he knows what to do with his hands. “Sure you don’t want me to touch? I can make you feel good.”

Eddie looks down at him, unimpressed. “I can make myself feel good,” he says. “Where’s your lube?”

Richie gestures vaguely at the side table. Eddie leans over and rifles through it, finding a truly exorbitant amount of condoms. He takes out one of the foil packets and the half-full bottle of lube, and then pops it open, smearing some across his fingers. He rises up onto his knees, spreading his legs farther apart, and reaches back to rub his fingertips across his own hole.

“Holy shit,” Richie breathes, staring at him. Eddie is pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. “Holy _shit_.”

“Put your hands by your head,” Eddie says, his voice a little thready as he sinks one finger inside.

Richie obliges, his knuckles against the mattress, palms up.

“Don’t move them,” Eddie says, and closes his eyes, trusting that Richie will listen.

“You’re so bossy,” Richie murmurs, but he doesn’t sound all that upset about it. Eddie grins up at the ceiling, pushing back onto his own hand. “I’m gonna die if you don’t touch me,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s whining.

Eddie looks at him, his eyelashes fluttering when he pushes in a second finger. “You’ve waited two years for this,” he taunts. “You can wait five more minutes.”

“I’m gonna _die_ ,” Richie says again, more forcefully. Eddie laughs, breathless, then moans when he spreads his fingers apart. He does this often enough that it doesn’t hurt. He’s mostly just teasing himself. Teasing Richie. It’s worth it, feeling Richie shift between his thighs, restless and wanting.

“Okay,” Eddie says finally, drawing out his fingers with a heavy shudder. “Okay.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Richie breathes, his hips arching up.

Eddie slaps Richie’s chest with his clean hand. “That counts as touching.”

“You are _cruel_ ,” Richie whines, but he goes still. Eddie manages to roll the condom onto Richie without getting off of him. Richie’s breathing goes all funny when Eddie lubes him up. “If this doesn’t last very long, I’m blaming you,” he says shakily.

“If this doesn’t last very long, I’m telling everyone,” Eddie replies, and starts to sink down onto Richie, holding him in place with one hand, the other splayed on Richie’s chest for balance. Richie’s heart is thunderous, beating just as wildly as Eddie’s. The cords of his throat visibly strain when his head drops back against the pillow. Eddie wants to bite him, so he does.

“Don’t do that,” Richie gasps. “It’s gonna be over in a second if you do.”

“Starting to think you’re all talk, Tozier,” Eddie says breathlessly, rising up and then sinking down again, farther this time. Richie is almost all the way inside, and it aches deliciously.

“Not my fault you managed to get even sexier,” Richie bites out, looking distracted, like he’s focusing all his energy on not flexing his hips. Eddie is weirdly proud of him. His hands are still lying loosely by his head, clenching and unclenching. He has not tried to move them.

Eddie starts to properly ride him then, rising up and bearing down. It’s not long before they’re both cursing, panting, sweating. Eddie’s thighs are burning, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to do this all night. He wants to stare at Richie’s burning eyes and his wet-open mouth. He wants to fuck himself on Richie’s big dick until his legs give out.

He wants, more than anything, to come.

He takes himself in his hand, stroking slowly, then faster. His rhythm stutters, and Richie’s screwed-shut eyes open, falling immediately to the way he’s touching himself. “Oh, that’s not fair,” Richie moans. His hips tilt the slightest bit, like he’s considering pushing up into Eddie’s body, and Eddie can’t even reprimand him for it because the angle is suddenly perfect. His moans go high and sharp, and the hand he has on his own cock goes faster. “Let me touch,” Richie begs. “Please. _Please_ , sweetheart, let me.”

Eddie’s nod is small, distracted, but it’s enough. Richie’s hand is much bigger than his own, warmer, and he strokes his thumb perfectly over the head like he knows just what Eddie likes.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie whimpers, shaking all over. “Will you please come already? I’m impressed, I swear.”

Richie laughs, then moans, then tightens his hand on Eddie’s dick. “Yeah, baby, yeah. Keep moving, just like that.” Eddie’s grinding goes short and abortive, riding his sweet spot against the head of Richie’s dick. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Richie nearly shouts, and Eddie feels Richie’s muscles go tight as he comes. The sight and sound of it is better than Eddie expects, and Eddie’s orgasm is almost secondary, not nearly as wonderful as the way Richie’s entire body trembles beneath him.

Eddie pulls off and falls to the bed beside Richie on his back. They both stare at the ceiling for a long time, trying to get their breath back.

“Fuck,” Richie says after awhile. He removes the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the wastebin beside his bed with practiced ease. His hands are shaking, badly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says back, sounding as dazed as he feels.

Richie’s head lolls to the side so he can look at Eddie. “Am I allowed to touch now?” he asks, which is not at all what Eddie expects him to say.

“Oh.” Eddie turns his head, too, and their lips are almost close enough to touch. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Richie rolls onto his side and slings a heavy arm across Eddie’s waist. “Cause I like to cuddle.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh, turning over so that Richie’s chest is against his back. Richie strokes random patterns onto Eddie’s skin, and Eddie shivers in his arms. They don’t speak, but the sweet, soft kisses Richie presses behind his ear say more than enough.

It’s probably a bad idea to fall asleep in Richie Tozier’s bed.

He does it anyway.

* * *

When Eddie wakes up, Richie is staring at him like a fucking creep. He can feel the heavy weight of his stare, and it really ruins the easy bliss of the morning after.

“Stop lookin’ at me,” he mumbles into the pillow, cracking his eyes open just barely. “I’m sleepin’.”

“Fucking _cute_ ,” Richie says, almost to himself.

Eddie stretches, then, and gasps unintentionally at the ache in his back, his thighs. He’s sure Richie is going to make some stupid, smug comment about it, but when he dares to open his eyes, Richie just smiles. Genuinely _smiles_.

“Who are you and what have you done with Richie Tozier?” Eddie asks.

“I’m pretty sure you killed me,” Richie answers brightly. “I’m operating under the assumption that this is heaven, and you’re an angel.”

“I don’t think you’re going to heaven,” Eddie replies. “And I don’t think an angel would fuck you like that.”

Richie’s eyes go dark at the reminder. He looks like he might reach for Eddie, so Eddie rolls out of bed, ignoring the way his body protests.

He tugs on his jeans, then looks around for his shirt. Before he finds it, Richie stands, blocking his search. “Where are you going?” he asks, sounding almost put-out.

Eddie stares at him, confused. “Home,” he says, but it sounds like a question. He’s not sure why Richie is asking. They both know how this works. Eddie’s going to go home, and Richie’s not going to text him, and they’ll go back to the way things were.

Except: “Pretty sure I owe you breakfast,” Richie says, and that smile comes back, bright and stupidly beautiful. “That was one of the conditions, wasn’t it?”

Eddie nods dumbly, caught off guard.

“Great,” Richie says. “I don’t have any pants that will fit you, but you can wear one of my shirts, if you want.”

It’s probably a bad idea to end up across from Richie Tozier in a restaurant booth, wearing one of Richie’s threadbare band shirts, laughing at the truly ridiculous amount of sugar Richie adds to his coffee.

Then again, Eddie has always been pretty good at making bad decisions, especially when it comes to Richie.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a month in the making. I'm so glad to finally have it out of my head.
> 
> Thanks to Bridget for all the encouragement and inspiration.


End file.
